A  BOY'S  WILL 


A  BOY'S  WILL 


BY 

ROBERT    FROST 


AUTHOR    OF    "NORTH    OF    BOSTON 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY   HOLT  AND   COMPANY 
1915 


I 


TO 

E.  M.  F. 


328242 


CONTENTS 

PART  I 

PAGE 

INTO    MY    OWN ii 

The  youth  is  persuaded  that  he  will  be  rather 
more  than  less  himself  for  having  forsworn 
the  world. 

GHOST  HOUSE 12 

He  is  happy  in  society  of  his  choosing. 

MY  NOVEMBER  GUEST 14 

He  is  in  love  with  being  misunderstood. 

LOVE  AND  A  QUESTION 15 

He  is  in  doubt  whether  to  admit  real  trouble 
to  a  place  beside  the  hearth  with  love. 

A  LATE  WALK          17 

He  courts  the  autumnal  mood. 

STARS 18 

There  is  no  oversight  of  human  affairs. 

STORM    FEAR        ........     19 

He  is  afraid  of  his  own  isolation. 

WIND   AND   WINDOW   FLOWER      ...     20 
Out  of  the  winter  things  he  fashions  a  story 
of   modern   love. 

TO  THE  THAWING  WIND 22 

He  calls  on  change  through  the  violence  of  the 
elements. 

vii 


viii  CONTENTS 

A  PRAYER  IN  SPRING 23 

He  discovers  that  the  greatness  of  love  lies  not 
in  forward-looking  thoughts; 

FLOWER-GATHERING      .       .       .       .       .       .24 

nor  yet  in  any  spur  it  may  be  to  ambition. 

ROSE   POGONIAS 25 

He    is    no    dissenter    from    the    ritualism    of 
nature ; 

ASKING    FOR    ROSES 27 

nor  from  the  ritualism  of  youth  which  is  make- 
believe. 

WAITING— AFIELD    AT    DUSK 29 

He  arrives  at  the  turn  of  the  year. 

IN  A  VALE      .       .       . 31 

Out  of  old  longings  he  fashions  a  story. 

A  DREAM  PANG 33 

He  is  shown  by  a  dream  how  really  well  it  is 
with  him. 

IN     NEGLECT 34 

He  is  scornful  of  folk  his  scorn  cannot  reach. 

THE  VANTAGE  POINT 35 

And  again  scornful,  but  there  is  no  one  hurt. 

MOWING 36 

He  takes  up  life  simply  with  the  small  tasks. 

GOING    FOR    WATER  .     37 


PART  II 

REVELATION 39 

He  resolves  to  become  intelligible,  at  least  to 
himself,  since  there  is  no  help  else ; 


CONTENTS  ix 

THE  TRIAL  BY   EXISTENCE      .       .       .       .40 
and  to  know  definitely  what  he  thinks  about 
the  soul; 

IN  EQUAL  SACRIFICE 44 

about  love; 

THE  TUFT  OF  FLOWERS 47 

about  fellowship; 

SPOILS  OF  THE  DEAD 50 

about  death; 

PAN  WITH  US 52 

about  art   (his  own)  ; 

THE  DEMIURGE'S  LAUGH 54 

about  science. 


PART  III 

NOW  CLpSE  THE  WINDOWS      .       .       .       .55 
It  is  time  to  make  an  end  of  speaking. 

A  LINE- STORM  SONG 56 

It  is  the  autumnal  mood  with  a  difference. 

OCTOBER 58 

He  sees  days  slipping  from  him  that  were  the 
best  for  what  they  were. 

MY  BUTTERFLY 59 

There  are  things  that  can  never  be  the  same4 

RELUCTANCE  62 


A  BOY'S  WILL 

INTO  MY  OWN 

ONE  of  my  wishes  is  that  those  dark  trees, 
So  old  and  firm  they  scarcely  show  the  breeze, 
Were  not,  as  'twere,  the  merest  mask  of  gloom, 
But  stretched  away  unto  the  edge  of  doom. 

I  should  not  be  withheld  but  that  some  day 
Into  their  vastness  I  should  steal  away, 
Fearless  of  ever  finding  open  land, 
Or  highway  where  the  slow  wheel  pours  the 
sand. 

I  do  not  see  why  I  should  e'er  turn  back, 
Or  those  should  not  set  forth  upon  my  track 
To  overtake  me,  who  should  miss  me  here 
And  long  to  know  if  still  I  held  them  dear. 

j  They  would  not  find  me  changed   from  him 

they  knew — 

Only  more  sure  of  all  I  thought  was  true.  ^ 
ii 


GHOST  HOUSE 

I  DWELL  in  a  lonely  house  I  know 
That  vanished  many  a  summer  ago, 
And  left  no  trace  but  the  cellar  walls, 
And  a  cellar  in  which  the  daylight  falls, 
And  the  purple-stemmed  wild  raspberries  grow. 


O'er  ruined  fences  the  grape-vines  shield 
The  woods  come  back  to  the  mowing  field ; 
The  orchard  tree  has  grown  one  copse 
Of  new  wood  and  old  where  the  woodpecker 

chops ; 
The  footpath  down  to  the  well  is  healed. 


I  dwell  with  a  strangely  aching  heart 
In  that  vanished  abode  there  far  apart 
On  that  disused  and  forgotten  road 
That  has  no  dust-bath  now  for  the  toad. 
Night  comes;  the  black  bats  tumble  and  dart; 

12 


GHOST  HOUSE  13 

The  whippoorwill  is  coming  to  shout 
And  hush  and  cluck  and  flutter  about : 

I  hear  him  begin  far  enough  away 

Full  many  a  time  to  say  his  say 
Before  he  arrives  to  say  it  out. 

It  is  under  the  small,  dim,  summer  star, 
I  know  not  who  these  mute  folk  are 
Who  share  the  unlit  place  with  me — 
Those  stones  out  under  the  low-limbed  tree 
Doubtless  bear  names  that  the  mosses  mar. 

They  are  tireless  folk,  but  slow  and  sad, 
Though  two,  close-keeping,  are  lass  and  lad, — 
With  none  among  them  that  ever  sings, 
And  yet,  in  view  of  how  many  things, 
As  sweet  companions  as  might  be  had. 


MY  NOVEMBER  GUEST 

MY  Sorrow,  when  she's  here  with  me, 
Thinks  these  dark  days  of  autumn  rain 

Are  beautiful  as  days  can  be ; 

She  loves  the  bare,  the  withered  tree ; 
She  walks  the  sodden  pasture  lane. 

Her  pleasure  will  not  let  me  stay. 

She  talks  and  I  am  fain  to  list: 
She's  glad  the  birds  are  gone  away, 
She's  glad  her  simple  worsted  grey 

Is  silver  now  with  clinging  mist. 

The  desolate,  deserted  trees, 

The  faded  earth,  the  heavy  sky, 
The  beauties  she  so  truly  sees, 
She  thinks  I  have  no  eye  for  these, 
And  vexes  me  for  reason  why. 

Not  yesterday  I  learned  to  know 
The  love  of  bare  November  days 

Before  the  coming  of  the  snow, 

But  it  were  vain  to  tell  her  so, 

And  they  are  better  for  her  praise. 


LOVE  AND  A  QUESTION 

A  STRANGER  came  to  the  door  at  eve, 

And  he  spoke  the  bridegroom  fair. 
He  bore  a  green-white  stick  in  his  hand, 

And,  for  all  burden,  care. 
He  asked  with  the  eyes  more  than  the  lips 

For  a  shelter  for  the  night, 
And  he  turned  and  looked  at  the  road  afar 

Without  a  window  light. 

i 
The  bridegroom  came  forth  into  the  porch 

With  '  Let  us  look  at  the  sky, 
And  question  what  of  the  night  to  be, 

Stranger,  you  and  I.' 
The  woodbine  leaves  littered  the  yard, 

The  woodbine  berries  were  blue, 
Autumn,  yes,  winter  was  in  the  wind; 

'  Stranger,  I  wish  I  knew.' 

Within,  the  bride  in  the  dusk  alone 
Bent  over  the  open  fire, 

15 


16  A  BOY'S  WILL 

Her  face  rose-red  with  the  glowing  coal 
And  the  thought  of  the  heart's  desire. 

The  bridegroom  looked  at  the  weary  road, 

Yet  saw  but  her  within, 
And  wished  her  heart  in  a  case  of  gold 

And  pinned  with  a  silver  pin. 

The  bridegroom  thought  it  little  to  give 

A  dole  of  bread,  a  purse, 
A  heartfelt  prayer  for  the  poor  of  God, 

Or  for  the  rich  a  curse ; 

But  whether  or  not  a  man  was  asked 

To  mar  the  love  of  two 
By  harboring  woe  in  the  bridal  house, 

The  bridegroom  wished  he  knew. 


A  LATE  WALK 

WHEN  I  go  up  through  the  mowing  field, 

The  headless  aftermath, 
Smooth-laid  like  thatch  with  the  heavy  dew, 

Half  closes  the  garden  path. 

And  when  I  come  to  the  garden  ground, 

The  whir  of  sober  birds 
Up  from  the  tangle  of  withered  weeds 

Is  sadder  than  any  words. 

A  tree  beside  the  wall  stands  bare, 

But  a  leaf  that  lingered  brown, 
Disturbed,  I  doubt  not,  by  my  thought, 

Comes  softly  rattling  down. 

I  end  not  far  from  my  going  forth 

By  picking  the  faded  blue 
Of  the  last  remaining  aster  flower 

To  carry  again  to  you. 


STARS 

How  countlessly  they  congregate 
O'er  our  tumultuous  snow, 

Which  flows  in  shapes  as  tall  as  trees 
When  wintry  winds  do  blow ! — 

As  if  with  keenness  for  our  fate, 
Our  faltering  few  steps  on 

To  white  rest,  and  a  place  of  rest 
Invisible  at  dawn, — 

And  yet  with  neither  love  nor  hate, 
Those  stars  like  some  snow-white 

Minerva's  snow-white  marble  eyes 
Without  the  gift  of  sight 


18 


STORM  FEAR 

WHEN  the  wind  works  against  us  in  the  dark, 

And  pelts  with  snow 

The  lower  chamber  window  on  the  east, 

And  whispers  with  a  sort  of  stifled  bark, 

The  beast, 

*  Come  out !    Come  out ! ' — 

It  costs  no  inward  struggle  not  to  go, 

Ah,  no! 

I  count  our  strength, 

Two  and  a  child, 

Those  of  us  not  asleep  subdued  to  mark 

How  the  cold  creeps  as  the  fire  dies  at  length, — 

How  drifts  are  piled, 

Dooryard  and  road  ungraded, 

Till  even  the  comforting  barn  grows  far  away 

And  my  heart  owns  a  doubt 

Whether  'tis  in  us  to  arise  with  day 

And  save  ourselves  unaided. 


WIND  AND  WINDOW  FLOWER 

LOVERS,  forget  your  love, 

And  list  to  the  love  of  these, 

She  a  window  flower, 
And  he  a  winter  breeze. 

When  the  frosty  window  veil 
Was  melted  down  at  noon, 

And  the  caged  yellow  bird 
Hung  over  her  in  tune, 

He  marked  her  through  the  pane, 
He  could  not  help  but  mark, 

And  only  passed  her  by, 
To  come  again  at  dark. 

He  was  a  winter  wind, 

Concerned  with  ice  and  snow, 

Dead  weeds  and  unmated  birds, 
And  little  of  love  could  know. 
20 


WIND  AND  WINDOW  FLOWER      21 

But  he  sighed  upon  the  sill, 

He  gave  the  sash  a  shake, 
As  witness  all  within 

Who  lay  that  night  awake. 

Perchance  he  half  prevailed 

To  win  her  for  the  flight 
From  the  firelit  looking-glass 

And  warm  stove-window  light. 

But  the  flower  leaned  aside 
And  thought  of  naught  to  say, 

And  morning  found  the  breeze 
A  hundred  miles  away. 


TO  THE  THAWING  WIND 


COME  with  rain,  O  loud  Southwester! 
Bring  the  singer,  bring  the  nester; 
Give  the  buried  flower  a  dream; 
Make  the  settled  snow-bank  steam ; 
Find  the  brown  beneath  the  white; 
But  whatever  you  do  to-night, 
Bathe  my  window,  make  it  flow, 
Melt  it  as  the  ices  go; 
Melt  the  glass  and  leave  the  sticks 
Like  a  hermit's  crucifix; 
Burst  into  my  narrow  stall; 
Swing  the  picture  on  the  wall; 
Run  the  rattling  pages  o'er ; 
Scatter  poems  on  the  floor ; 
Turn  the  poet  out  of  door. 


22 


A  PRAYER  IN  SPRING 

OH,  give  us  pleasure  in  the  flowers  to-day; 
And  give  us  not  to  think  so  far  away 
As  the  uncertain  harvest ;  keep  us  here 
All  simply  in  the  springing  of  the  year. 

Oh,  give  us  pleasure  in  the  orchard  white, 
Like  nothing  else  by  day,  like  ghosts  by  night; 
And  make  us  happy  in  the  happy  bees, 
The  swarm  dilating  round  the  perfect  trees. 

And  make  us  happy  in  the  darting  bird 
That  suddenly  above  the  bees  is  heard, 
The  meteor  that  thrusts  in  with  needle  bill, 
And  off  a  blossom  in  mid  air  stands  still. 

For  this  is  love  and  nothing  else  is  love, 
The  which  it  is  reserved  for  God  above 
To  sanctify  to  what  far  ends  He  will, 
But  which  it  only  needs  that  we  fulfil. 


23 


FLOWER-GATHERING 

I  LEFT  you  in  the  morning, 

And  in  the  morning  glow, 

You  walked  a  way  beside  me 

To  make  me  sad  to  go. 

Do  you  know  me  in  the  gloaming, 

Gaunt  and  dusty  grey  with  roaming? 

Are  you  dumb  because  you  know  me  not, 

Or  dumb  because  you  know? 

All  for  me  ?    And  not  a  question 

For  the  faded  flowers  gay 

That  could  take  me  from  beside  you 

For  the  ages  of  a  day? 

They  are  yours,  and  be  the  measure 

Of  their  worth  for  you  to  treasure, 

The  measure  of  the  little  while 

That  I've  been  long  away. 


24 


ROSE  POGONIAS 

A  SATURATED  meadow, 

Sun-shaped  and  jewel-small, 
A  circle  scarcely  wider 

Than  the  trees  around  were  tall ; 
Where  winds  were  quite  excluded, 

And  the  air  was  stifling  sweet 
With  the  breath  of  many  flowers, — 

A  temple  of  the  heat. 

There  we  bowed  us  in  the  burning, 

As  the  sun's  right  worship  is, 
To  pick  where  none  could  miss  them 

A  thousand  orchises; 
For  though  the  grass  was  scattered, 

Yet  every  second  spear 
Seemed  tipped  with  wings  of  color, 

That  tinged  the  atmosphere. 

We  raised  a  simple  prayer 

Before  we  left  the  spot, 
That  in  the  general  mowing 

That  place  might  be  forgot; 
25 


26  A  BOY'S  WILL 

Or  if  not  all  so  favoured, 
Obtain  such  grace  of  hours, 

That  none  should  mow  the  grass  there 
While  so  confused  with  flowers. 


ASKING  FOR  ROSES 

A  HOUSE  that  lacks,  seemingly,  mistress  and 

master, 
With  doors  that  none  but  the  wind  ever 

closes, 

Its  floor  all  littered  with  glass  and  with  plaster; 
It  stands  in  a  garden  of  old-fashioned  roses. 

I  pass  by  that  way  in  the  gloaming  with  Mary ; 

'  I  wonder,'  I  say,  '  who  the  owner  of  those 

is. 
'  Oh,  no  one  you  know/  she  answers  me  airy, 

'  But  one  we  must  ask  if  we  want  any  roses/ 

So  we  must  join  hands  in  the  dew  coming 

coldly 

There  in  the  hush  of  the  wood  that  reposes, 
And  turn  and  go  up  to  the  open  door  boldly, 
And  knock  to  the  echoes  as  beggars   for 
roses. 

27 


28  A  BOY'S  WILL 

'  Pray,  are  you  within  there,  Mistress  Who 

were-you  ? ' 

'Tis  Mary  that  speaks  and  our  errand  dis 
closes. 

'  Pray,  are  you  within  there  ?    Bestir  you,  be 
stir  you ! 

'Tis  summer  again;  there's  two  come  for 
roses. 

'  A  word  with  you,  that  of  the  singer  recall 
ing— 
Old    Herrick:    a   saying   that    every    maid 

knows  is 

A  flower  unplucked  is  but  left  to  the  falling, 
And   nothing   is   gained   by   not   gathering 
roses.' 

We  do  not  loosen  our  hands'  intertwining 
(Not  caring  so  very  much  what  she  sup 
poses), 

There  when  she  comes  on  us  mistily  shining 
And  grants  us  by  silence  the  boon  of  her 
roses. 


WAITING 

AFIELD   AT   DUSK 

WHAT    things    for    dream    there    are    when 

spectre-like, 

Moving  among  tall  haycocks  lightly  piled, 
I  enter  alone  upon  the  stubble  field, 
From  which  the  laborers'  voices  late  have  died, 
And  in  the  antiphony  of  afterglow 
And  rising  full  moon,  sit  me  down 
Upon  the  full  moon's  side  of  the  first  haycock 
And  lose  myself  amid  so  many  alike. 

I  dream  upon  the  opposing  lights  of  the  hour, 
Preventing  shadow  until  the  moon  prevail  ; 
I  dream  upon  the  night-hawks  peopling  heaven, 
Each  circling  each  with  vague  unearthly  cry, 
Or  plunging  headlong  with  fierce  twang  afar; 
And  on  the  bat's  mute  antics,  who  would  seem 
Dimly  to  have  made  out  my  secret  place, 
Only  to  lose  it  when  he  pirouettes, 
And  seek  it  endlessly  with  purblind  haste ; 
29 


30  A  BOY'S  WILL 

On  the  last  swallow's  sweep ;  and  on  the  rasp 
In  the  abyss  of  odor  and  rustle  at  my  back, 
That,  silenced  by  my  advent,  finds  once  more, 
After  an  interval,  his  instrument, 
And    tries   once — twice — and   thrice    if    I   be 

there; 

And  on  the  worn  book  of  old-golden  song 
I  brought  not  here  to  read,  it  seems,  but  hold 
And  freshen  in  this  air  of  withering  sweetness ; 
But  on  the  memory  of  one  absent  most, 
For  whom  these  lines  when  they  shall  greet 

her  eye. 


IN  A  VALE 

WHEN  I  was  young,  we  dwelt  in  a  vale 

By  a  misty  fen  that  rang  all  night, 
And  thus  it  was  the  maidens  pale 
I  knew  so  well,  whose  garments  trail 
Across  the  reeds  to  a  window  light. 

The  fen  had  every  kind  of  bloom, 

And  for  every  kind  there  was  a  face, 
And  a  voice  that  has  sounded  in  my  room 
Across  the  sill  from  the  outer  gloom. 
Each  came  singly  unto  her  place, 

But  all  came  every  night  with  the  mist ; 

And  often  they  brought  so  much  to  say 
Of  things  of  moment  to  which,  they  wist, 
One  so  lonely  was  fain  to  list, 

That  the  stars  were  almost  faded  away 

Before  the  last  went,  heavy  with  dew, 
Back  to  the  place  from  which  she  came — 


32  A  BOY'S  WILL 

Where  the  bird  was  before  it  flew, 
Where  the  flower  was  before  it  grew, 

Where  bird  and  flower  were  one  and  the 
same. 

And  thus  it  is  I  know  so  well 

Why  the  flower  has  odor,  the  bird  has  song. 
You  have  only  to  ask  me,  and  I  can  tell. 
No,  not  vainly  there  did  I  dwell, 

Nor  vainly  listen  all  the  night  long. 


A  DREAM  PANG 

I  HAD  withdrawn  in  forest,  and  my  song 
Was  swallowed  up  in  leaves  that  blew  alway ; 
And  to  the  forest  edge  you  came  one  day 
(This  was  my  dream)   and  looked  and  pon 
dered  long, 

But  did  not  enter,  though  the  wish  was  strong : 
You  shook  your  pensive  head  as  who  should 

say, 

'  I  dare  not — too  far  in  his  footsteps  stray — 
He  must  seek  me  would  he  undo  the  wrong. 

Not  far,  but  near,  I  stood  and  saw  it  all 
Behind  low  boughs  the  trees  let  down  outside; 
And  the  sweet  pang  it  cost  me  not  to  call 
And  tell  you  that  I  saw  does  still  abide. 
But  'tis  not  true  that  thus  I  dwelt  aloof, 
For  the  wood  wakes,  and  you  are  here  for 
proof. 


33 


IN  NEGLECT 

THEY  leave  us  so  to  the  way  we  took, 

As  two  in  whom  they  were  proved  mistaken, 
That  we  sit  sometimes  in  the  wayside  nook, 
With  mischievous,  vagrant,  seraphic  look, 
And  try  if  we  cannot  feel  forsaken. 


34 


THE  VANTAGE  POINT 

IF  tired  of  trees  I  seek  again  mankind, 

Well  I  know  where  to  hie  me — in  the  dawn, 
To  a  slope  where  the  cattle  keep  the  lawn. 

There  amid  lolling  juniper  reclined, 

Myself  unseen,  I  see  in  white  defined 

Far  off  the  homes  of  men,  and  farther  still, 
The  graves  of  men  on  an  opposing  hill, 

Living  or  dead,  whichever  are  to  mind. 

And  if  by  noon  I  have  too  much  of  these, 
I  have  but  to  turn  on  my  arm,  and  lo, 
The  sun-burned  hillside  sets  my  face  aglow, 

My  breathing  shakes  the  bluet  like  a  breeze, 
I  smell  the  earth,  I  smell  the  bruised  plant, 
I  look  into  the  crater  of  the  ant. 


35 


MOWING 

THERE  was  never  a  sound  beside  the  wood  but 

one, 
And  that  was  my  long  scythe  whispering  to 

the  ground. 
What  was  it  it  whispered?    I  knew  not  well 

myself; 
Perhaps  it  was  something  about  the  heat  of 

the  sun, 

Something,  perhaps,  about  the  lack  of  sound — 
And  that  was  why  it  whispered  and  did  not 

speak. 

It  was  no  dream  of  the  gift  of  idle  hours, 
Or  easy  gold  at  the  hand  of  fay  or  elf : 
Anything   more   than   the   truth   would   have 

seemed  too  weak 

To  the  earnest  love  that  laid  the  swale  in  rows, 
Not  without  feeble-pointed  spikes' of  flowers 
(Pale  orchises),   and   scared  a  bright  green 

snake. 
The   fact   is  the   sweetest   dream   that   labor 

knows. 
My  long  scythe  whispered  and  left  the  hay  to 

make. 

36 


GOING  FOR  WATE& 

THE  well  was  dry  beside  the  door, 
And  so  we  went  with  pail  and  can 

Across  the  fields  behind  the  house 
To  seek  the  brook  if  still  it  ran; 

Not  loth  to  have  excuse  to  go, 
Because  the  autumn  eve  was  fair 

(Though  chill),  because  the  fields  were  ours, 
And  by  the  brook  our  woods  were  there. 

We  ran  as  if  to  meet  the  moon 

That  slowly  dawned  behind  the  trees, 

The  barren  boughs  without  the  leaves, 
Without  the  birds,  without  the  breeze. 

But  once  within  the  wood,  we  paused 
Like  gnomes  that  hid  us  from  the  moon, 

Ready  to  run  to  hiding  new 

With  laughter  when  she  found  us  soon. 
37 


38  A  BOY'S  WILL 

Each  laid  on  other  a  staying  hand 
To  listen  ere  we  dared  to  look, 

And  in  the  hush  we  joined  to  make 

We  heard,  we  knew  we  heard  the  brook. 

A  note  as  from  a  single  place, 
A  slender  tinkling  fall  that  made 

Now  drops  that  floated  on  the  pool 
Like  pearls,  and  now  a  silver  blade.      , 


V 
REVELATION 

WE  make  ourselves  a  place  apart 

Behind  light  words  that  tease  and  flout, 

But  oh,  the  agitated  heart 

Till  someone  find  us  really  out. 

'Tis  pity  if  the  case  require 

(Or  so  we  say)  that  in  the  end 
We  speak  the  literal  to  inspire 

The  understanding  of  a  friend. 

But  so  with  all,  from  babes  that  play 

At  hide-and-seek  to  God  afar, 
So  all  who  hide  too  well  away 

Must   speak   and  tell   us   where   they   are. 


39 


THE  TRIAL  BY  EXISTENCE 

EVEN  the  bravest  that  are  slain 

Shall  not  dissemble  their  surprise 
On  waking  to  find  valor  reign, 

Even  as  on  earth,  in  paradise ; 
And  where  they  sought  without  the  sword 

Wide  fields  of  asphodel  fore'er, 
To  find  that  the  utmost  reward 

Of  daring  should  be  still  to  dare. 

The  light,  of  heaven  falls  whole  and  white 

And  is  not  shattered  into  dyes, 
The  light  for  ever  is  morning  light ; 

The  hills  are  verdured  pasture-wise; 
The  angel  hosts  with  freshness  go, 

And  seek  with  laughter  what  to  brave ;- 
And  binding  all  is  the  hushed  snow 

Of  the  far-distant  breaking  wave. 

And  from  a  cliff-top  is  proclaimed 
The  gathering  of  the  souls  for  birth, 
40 


THE  TRIAL  BY  EXISTENCE        41 

The  trial  by  existence  named, 

The  obscuration  upon  earth. 
And  the  slant  spirits  trooping  by 

In  streams  and  cross-  and  counter-streams 
Can  but  give  ear  to  that  sweet  cry 

For  its  suggestion  of  what  dreams ! 


And  the  more  loitering  are  turned 

To  view  once  more  the  sacrifice 
Of  those  who  for  some  good  discerned 

Will  gladly  give  up  paradise. 
And  a  white  shimmering  concourse  rolls 

Toward  the  throne  to  witness  there 
The  speeding  of  devoted  souls 

Which  God  makes  his  especial  care. 


And  none  are  taken  but  who  will, 

Having  first  heard  the  life  read  out 
That  opens  earthward,  good  and  ill, 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt; 
And  very  beautifully  God  limns, 

And  tenderly,  life's  little  dream, 
But  naught  extenuates  or  dims, 

Setting  the  thing  that  is  supreme. 


42  A  BOY'S  WILL 

Nor  is  there  wanting  in  the  press 

Some  spirit  to  stand  simply  forth, 
Heroic  in  its  nakedness, 

Against  the  uttermost  of  earth. 
The  tale  of  earth's  unhonored  things 

Sounds  nobler  there  than  'neath  the  sun ; 
And  the  mind  whirls  and  the  heart  sings, 

And  a  shout  greets  the  daring  one. 

But  always  God  speaks  at  the  end : 

'  One  thought  in  agony  of  strife 
The  bravest  would  have  by  for  friend, 

The  memory  that  he  chose  the  life; 
But  the  pure  fate  to  which  you  go 

Admits  no  memory  of  choice, 
Or  the  woe  were  not  earthly  woe 

To  which  you  give  the  assenting  voice.' 

And  so  the  choice  must  be  again, 

But  the  last  choice  is  still  the  same; 
And  the  awe  passes  wonder  then, 

And  a  hush  falls  for  all  acclaim. 
And  God  has  taken  a  flower  of  gold 

And  broken  it,  and  used  therefrom 
The  mystic  link  to  bind  and  hold 

Spirit  to  matter  till  death  come. 


THE  TRIAL  BY  EXISTENCE         43 

Tis  of  the  essence  of  life  here, 

Though  we  choose  greatly,  still  to  lack 
The  lasting  memory  at  all  clear, 

That  life  has  for  us  on  the  wrack         ? 
Nothing  but  what  we  somehow  chose ; 

Thus  are  we  wholly  stripped  of  pride 
In  the  pain  that  has  but  one  close, 

Bearing  it  crushed  and  mystified. 


IN  EQUAL  SACRIFICE 

THUS  of  old  the  Douglas  did : 

He  left  his  land  as  he  was  bid 

With  the  royal  heart  of  Robert  the  Bruce 

In  a  golden  case  with  a  golden  lid, 

To  carry  the  same  to  the  Holy  Land ; 
By  which  we  see  and  understand 
That  that  was  the  place  to  carry  a  heart 
At  loyalty  and  love's  command, 

And  that  was  the  case  to  carry  it  in. 
The  Douglas  had  not  far  to  win 
Before  he  came  to  the  land  of  Spain, 
Where  long  a  holy  war  had  been 

Against  the  too-victorious  Moor ; 
And  there  his  courage  could  not  endure 
Not  to  strike  a  blow  for  God 
Before  he  made  his  errand  sure. 

44 


IN  EQUAL  SACRIFICE  45 

And  ever  it  was  intended  so, 

That  a  man  for  God  should  strike  a  blow, 

No  matter  the  heart  he  has  in  charge 

For  the  Holy  Land  where  hearts  should  go. 


But  when  in  battle  the  foe  were  met, 
The  Douglas  found  him  sore  beset, 
With  only  strength  of  the  fighting  arm 
For  one  more  battle  passage  yet — 

And  that  as  vain  to  save  the  day 
As  bring  his  body  safe  away — 
Only  a  signal  deed  to  do 
And  a  last  sounding  word  to  say. 

The  heart  he  wore  in  a  golden  chain 
He  swung  and  flung  forth  into  the  plain, 
And  followed  it  crying  '  Heart  or  death ! ' 
And  fighting  over  it  perished  fain. 

So  may  another  do  of  right, 
Give  a  heart  to  the  hopeless  fight, 
The  more  of  right  the  more  he  loves; 
So  may  another  redouble  might 


46  A  BOY'S  WILL 

For  a  few  swift  gleams  of  the  angry  brand, 

Scorning  greatly  not  to  demand 

In  equal  sacrifice  with  his 

The  heart  he  bore  to  the  Holy  Land. 


THE  TUFT  OF  FLOWERS 

I  WENT  to  turn  the  grass  once  after  one 
Who  mowed  it  in  the  dew  before  the  sun. 

The  dew  was  gone  that  made  his  blade  so  keen 
Before  I  came  to  view  the  levelled  scene. 

I  looked  for  him  behind  an  isle  of  trees; 
I  listened  for  his  whetstone  on  the  breeze. 

But  he  had  gone  his  way,  the  grass  all  mown, 
And  I  must  be,  as  he  had  been, — alone, 

'  As  all  must  be,'  I  said  within  my  heart, 
'  Whether  they  work  together  or  apart.' 

,- 

But  as  I  said  it,  swift  there  passed  me  by 
On  noiseless  wing  a  'wildered  butterfly, 

Seeking  with  memories  grown  dim  o'er  night 
Some  resting  flower  of  yesterday's  delight. 

47 


48  A  BOY'S  WILL 

And  once  I  marked  his  flight  go  round  and 

round, 
As  where  some  flower  lay  withering  on  the 

ground. 

And  then  he  flew  as  far  as  eye  could  see, 
And  then  on  tremulous  wing  came  back  to  me. 

I  thought  of  questions  that  have  no  reply, 
And  would  have  turned  to  toss  the  grass  to  dry ; 

But  he  turned  first,  and  led  my  eye  to  look 
At  a  tall  tuft  of  flowers  beside  a  brook, 

A  leaping  tongue  of  bloom  the  scythe  had 

spared 
Beside  a  reedy  brook  the  scythe  had  bared. 

I  left  my  place  to  know  them  by  their  name, 
—  Finding  them  butterfly  weed  when  I  came. 

The  mower  in  the  dew  had  loved  them  thus, 
By  leaving  them  to  flourish,  not  for  us, 

Nor  yet  to  draw  one  thought  of  ours  to  him. 
But  from  sheer  morning  gladness  at  the  brim. 

: 


t 

THE  TUFT  OF  FLOWERS  49 

The  butterfly  and  I  had  lit  upon, 
Nevertheless,  a  message  from  the  dawn, 

That    made    me    hear    the    wakening    birds 

around, 
And  hear  his  long  scythe  whispering  to  the 

ground, 

And  feel  a  spirit  kindred  to  my  own; 

So  that  henceforth  I  worked  no  more  alone; 

But  glad  with  him,  I  worked  as  with  his  aid, 
And  weary,  sought  at  noon  with  him  the  shade  ; 

And    dreaming,    as    it    were,    held    brotherly 

speech 
With  one  whose  thought  I  had  not  hoped  to 

feach. 

'  Men  work  together/   I  told  him   from  the 

— -heart;— 
'  Whether  they  work  together  or  apart/ 


SPOILS  OF  THE  DEAD 

Two  fairies  it  was 
On  a  still  summer  day 

Came  forth  in  the  woods 
With  the  flowers  to  play. 

The  flowers  they  plucked 
They  cast  on  the  ground 

For  others,  and  those 

For  still  others  they  found. 

Flower-guided  it  was 

That  they  came  as  they  ran 
On  something  that  lay 

In  the  shape  of  a  man. 

The  snow  must  have  made 

The  feathery  bed 
When  this  one  fell 

On  the  sleep  of  the  dead. 
50 


SPOILS  OF  THE  DEAD  51 

But  the  snow  was  gone 

A  long  time  ago, 
And  the  body  he  wore 

Nigh  gone  with  the  snow. 

The  fairies  drew  near 

And  keenly  espied 
A  ring  on  his  hand 

And  a  chain  at  his  side. 

They  knelt  in  the  leaves 

And  eerily  played 
With  the  glittering  things, 

And  were  not  afraid. 

And  when  they  went  home 

To  hide  in  their  burrow, 
They  took  them  along 

To  play  with  to-morrow. 

When  you  came  on  death, 

Did  you  not  come  flower-guided 

Like  the  elves  in  the  wood? 
I  remember  that  I  did. 

But  I  recognised  death 

With  sorrow  and  dread, 
And  I  hated  and  hate 

The  spoils  of  the  dead. 


PAN  WITH  US 

PAN  came  out  of  the  woods  one  day, — 
His  skin  and  his  hair  and  his  eyes  were  gray, 
The  gray  of  the  moss  of  walls  were  they, — 
And  stood  in  the  sun  and  looked  his  fill 
At  wooded  valley  and  wooded  hill. 

He  stood  in  the  zephyr,  pipes  in  hand, 
On  a  height  of  naked  pasture  land ; 
In  all  the  country  he  did  command 

He  saw  no  smoke  and  he  saw  no  roof. 

That  was  well !  and  he  stamped  a  hoof. 

His  heart  knew  peace,  for  none  came  here 
To  this  lean  feeding  save  once  a  year 
Someone  to  salt  the  half-wild  steer, 

Or  homespun  children  with  clicking  pails 
Who  see  so  little  they  tell  no  tales. 

He  tossed  his  pipes,  too  hard  to  teach 
A  new-world  song,  far  out  of  reach, 
For  a  sylvan  sign  that  the  blue  jay's  screech 
52 


PAN  WITH  US  53 

And  the  whimper  of  hawks  beside  the  sun 
Were  music  enough  for  him,  for  one. 

Times  were  changed  from  what  they  were : 
Such  pipes  kept  less  of  power  to  stir 
The  fruited  bough  of  the  juniper 

And  the  fragile  bluets  clustered  there 
Than  the  merest  aimless  breath  of  air. 

They  were  pipes  of  pagan  mirth, 

And  the  world  had  found  new  terms  of  worth. 

He  laid  him  down  on  the  sun-burned  earth 
And  ravelled  a  flower  and  looked  away — 
Play  ?    Play  ? — What  should  he  play  ? 


THE  DEMIURGE'S  LAUGH 

IT  was  far  in  the  sameness  of  the  wood  ; 

I  was  running  with  joy  on  the  Demon's  trail, 
Though  I  knew  what  I  hunted  was  no  true  god. 

It  was  just  as  the  light  was  beginning  to  fail 
That  I  suddenly  heard — all  I  needed  to  hear: 
It  has  lasted  me  many  and  many  a  year. 

The  sound  was  behind  me  instead  of  before, 
A  sleepy  sound,  but  mocking  half, 

As  of  one  who  utterly  couldn't  care. 

The  Demon  arose  from  his  wallow  to  laugh, 

Brushing  the  dirt  from  his  eye  as  he  went; 

And  well  I  knew  what  the  Demon  meant. 

I  shall  not  forget  how  his  laugh  rang  out. 

I  felt  as  a  fool  to  have  been  so  caught, 
And  checked  my  steps  to  make  pretence 

It  was  something  among  the  leaves  I  sought 
(Though  doubtful  whether  he  stayed  to  see). 
Thereafter  I  sat  me  against  a  tree. 

54 


NOW  CLOSE  THE  WINDOWS 

Now  close  the  windows  and  hush  all  the  fields; 

If  the  trees  must,  let  them  silently  toss; 
No  bird  is  singing  now,  and  if  there  is, 

Be  it  my  loss. 

It  will  be  long  ere  the  marshes  resume, 
It  will  be  long  ere  the  earliest  bird : 

So  close  the  windows  and  not  hear  the  wind, 
But  see  all  wind-stirred. 


55 


A  LINE-STORM  SONG 

THE  line-storm  clouds  fly  tattered  and  swift, 
/     The  road  is  forlorn  all  day, 
Where  a  myriad  snowy  quartz  stones  lift, 

And  the  hoof-prints  vanish  away. 
The  roadside  flowers,  too  wet  for  the  bee, 

Expend  their  bloom  in  vain. 
Come  over  the  hills  and  far  with  me, 

And  be  my  love  in  the  rain. 

The  birds  have  less  to  say  for  themselves 

In  the  wood-world's  torn  despair 
Than  now  these  numberless  years  the  elves, 

Although  they  are  no  less  there: 
All  song  of  the  woods  is  crushed  like  some 

Wild,  easily  shattered  rose. 
Come,  be  my  love  in  the  wet  woods;  come, 

Where  the  boughs  rain  when  it  blows. 

There  is  the  gale  to  urge  behind 
And  bruit  our  singing  down, 

56 


A  LINE-STORM  SONG  57 

And  the  shallow  waters  aflutter  with  wind 
From  which  to  gather  your  gown. 

What  matter  if  we  go  clear  to  the  west, 
And  come  not  through  dry-shod? 

For  wilding  brooch  shall  wet  your  breast 
The  rain-fresh  goldenrod. 

Oh,  never  this  whelming  east  wind  swells 

But  it  seems  like  the  sea's  return 
To  the  ancient  lands  where  it  left  the  shells 

Before  the  age  of  the  fern; 
And  it  seems  like  the  time  when  after  doubt 

Our  love  came  back  amain. 
Oh,  come  forth  into  the  storm  and  rout 

And  be  my  love  in  the  rain. 


OCTOBER 

O  HUSHED  October  morning  mild, 
Thy  leaves  have  ripened  to  the  fall; 
To-morrow's  wind,  if  it  be  wild, 
Should  waste  them  all. 
The  crows  above  the  forest  call ; 
To-morrow  they  may  form  and  go. 
O  hushed  October  morning  mild, 
Begin  the  hours  of  this  day  slow, 
Make  the  day  seem  to  us  less  brief. 
Hearts  not  averse  to  being  beguiled, 
Beguile  us  in  the  way  you  know; 
Release  one  leaf  at  break  of  day; 
At  noon  release  another  leaf; 
One  from  our  trees,  one  far  away; 
Retard  the  sun  with  gentle  mist; 
Enchant  the  land  with  amethyst. 
Slow,  slow ! 

For  the  grapes'  sake,  if  they  were  all, 
Whose  leaves  already  are  burnt  with  frost, 
Whose  clustered  fruit  must  else  be  lost — 
For  the  grapes'  sake  along  the  wall. 

58 


MY  BUTTERFLY 

THINE  emulous  fond  flowers  are  dead,  too, 

And  the  daft  sun-assaulter,  he 

That  frighted  thee  so  oft,  is  fled  or  dead: 

Save  only  me 

(Nor  is  it  sad  to  thee!) 

Save  only  me 

There  is  none  left  to  mourn  thee  in  the  fields. 


The  gray  grass  is  not  dappled  with  the  snow; 

Its  two  banks  have  not  shut  upon  the  river; 

But  it  is  long  ago — 

It  seems  forever — 

Since  first  I  saw  thee  glance, 

With  all  the  dazzling  other  ones, 

In  airy  dalliance, 

Precipitate  in  love, 

Tossed,  tangled,  whirled  and  whirled  above, 

Like  a  limp  rose-wreath  in  a  fairy  dance. 

59 


60  A  BOY'S  WILL 

When  that  was,  the  soft  mist 

Of  my  regret  hung  not  on  all  the  land, 

And  I  was  glad  for  thee, 

And  glad  for  me,  I  wist. 

Thou  didst  not  know,  who  tottered,  wander 
ing  on  high, 

That  fate  had  made  thee  for  the  pleasure  of  the 
wind, 

With  those  great  careless  wings, 

Nor  yet  did  I. 

And  there  were  other  things : 

It  seemed  God  let  thee  flutter  from  his  gentle 

clasp : 

Then  fearful  he  had  let  thee  win 
Too  far  beyond  him  to  be  gathered  in, 
Snatched  thee,  o'er  eager,  with  ungentle  grasp. 

Ah !  I  remember  me 

How  once  conspiracy  was  rife 

Against  my  life — 

The  languor  of  it  and  the  dreaming  fond ; 

Surging,  the  grasses  dizzied  me  of  thought, 

The  breeze  three  odors  brought, 

And  a  gem-flower  waved  in  a  wand ! 


MY  BUTTERFLY  61 

Then  when  I  was  distraught 

And  could  not  speak, 

Sidelong,  full  on  my  cheek, 

What  should  that  reckless  zephyr  fling 

But  the  wild  touch  of  thy  dye-dusty  wing ! 

I  found  that  wing  broken  to-day ! 

For  thou  art  dead,  I  said, 

And  the  strange  birds  say. 

I  found  it  with  the  withered  leaves 

Under  the  eaves. 


RELUCTANCE 

OUT  through  the  fields  and  the  woods 
And  over  the  walls' I  have  wended; 

I  have  climbed  the  hills  of  view 

And  looked  at  the  world,  and  descended; 

I  have  come  by  the  highway  home, 
And  lo,  it  is  ended. 

The  leaves  are  all  dead  on  the  ground, 
Save  those  that  the  oak  is  keeping 

To  ravel  them  one  by  one 

And  let  them  go  scraping  and  creeping 

Out  over  the  crusted  snow, 
When  others  are  sleeping. 

And  the  dead  leaves  lie  huddled  and  still, 
No  longer  blown  hither  and  thither ; 

The  last  lone  aster  is  gone; 

The  flowers  of  the  wich-hazel  wither; 

The  heart  is  still  aching  to  seek, 
But  the  feet  question  'Whither?' 
62 


RELUCTANCE  63 


Ah,  when  to  the  heart  of  man 
Was  it  ever  less  than  a  treason 

To  go  with  the  drift  of  things, 
To  yield  with  a  grace  to  reason, 

And  bow  and  accept  the  end-- 
Of  a  love  or  a  season? 


Certain  of  these,  poems  are  reprinted  by  courteous 
permission  from:--'/7^  Pontm,  The  Independent,  The 
Companion. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL  NO.  642-3405 
This  book  is  due  on  die  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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